The Baby in the Fire

Rose Mhone bent over the bubbling black pot of white cornmeal porridge. It lay atop a small wood fire in the little grass-and-mud kitchen that stood behind her family’s hut in Chisenga village. It was before dawn, and the first fingers of light had not yet touched the tall Mafinga Mountains, which rose like mighty elephants behind her little village in northern Malawi. She slowly poured in more of the fine white meal as she stirred with a strong wooden spoon. Her husband, Lewani, would be back from the garden soon for breakfast. He liked the porridge she cooked for him each morning.

“No one in the village can make the corn flour so white and fine or the porridge as smooth as my wife can,” he liked to boast.

She smiled to herself. Lewani was a good husband. He cared for her and for their nine-month-old son, John. The fat little baby now lay sleeping, tied to her back by the large clothe chitenje (a broad piece of cloth worn around the waist by women and used to tie a baby to the back or carry things in). His slow, calm breathing told her of the baby’s good health and gave her a sense of peace.

“Hello, my wife,” a low voice called.

“Hello, my husband,” Rose answered quietly to the dark figure coming to the hut. She stood up to meet her husband.

“The porridge is almost ready. I will bring it to the table just now.”

“Ah, good,” he replied. “I am very hungry this morning.”

Rose knew that her husband worked hard in the garden. They had one of the largest plots in the village and their corn was growing very well. If the good rains will just continue, she thought, we will have a great harvest. But now she must show her love by getting the breakfast quickly.

Little John began to stir on her back and let out a low cry. He was hungry too! In order to serve Lewani quickly Rose took the baby from her back and set him in one corner of the small kitchen hut. Then she poured the boiling porridge into the blue serving bowl and picked up several pieces of boiled potato she had cooked the night before. She walked the short distance between the kitchen and their hut.

The three-room hut was made of the same materials as the kitchen. Its smooth walls were mud and grass spread over strong sticks Lewani had cut from the forest. The roof was long, thick layers of dry grass. Not a drop of rain leaked through, even during the heaviest storm. The large room in the middle had a small wooden couch covered with several layers of cloth. On it lay a little pillow Rose had made. There were also several wooden chairs and the dining table. The walls were bare except for a beautiful small basket, which hung on a wooden peg; a frame with several family photos; and a picture of Jesus from a picture roll.

Rose set the food down before Lewani, who was already seated at the table. He had just begun to spoon out the porridge into his bowl when there was a loud cry, “Waaaa-aa-aaaa!”

“My baby!” Rose screamed as she ran back to the kitchen. There she saw that little John, who had just begun to walk the week before, had seen the dancing flames and moved toward them to catch them. As his small feet touched the burning coals he fell forward and burned his little hands in the fire as well as his feet.

Rose grabbed her baby from the flames. Lewani was by her side. But it was too late. The fire had already done its evil work. John’s hands and feet were red, blistered, and burned. He was screaming, throwing his arms and legs from side to side.

“Oh, my baby, my baby!” was all that Rose could say through sobs as she wrapped the little one in her chitenje.

Suddenly a small stooped figure appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen. The glowing fire and the coming dawn cast flickering shadows across the wrinkled face. Grandmother. One look told her what had happened. She grabbed the baby out of Rose’s arms.

“Foolish girl,” the words flew from her lips like the poison of the spitting cobra. “How many times have I told you not to leave the child alone near the fire?”

The words fell like a heavy stone on Rose's heart. She had only left John a minute. She was only hurring to serve Lewani. The morning had been so peaceful. How could this happen? What should she do? Would her little John ever walk again?